


these days are golden

by eudaimon



Series: South, South [6]
Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2013-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-27 17:37:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/664642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eudaimon/pseuds/eudaimon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Brazil, halfway to where they're going, Brad starts to think about what it might be like to return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	these days are golden

_and nobody knows me at home anymore  
build a rocket, boys_

 

When they abandon the car and take the bike instead, it feels clandestine and somehow exactly what they were made for; he feels more like himself than he has since they stitched him back together. Even though the bike is quick, they take their time, idle along wide, dusty roads. He takes his time teaching Nate how to steer. In the heat, the wind tastes of dry dust and distant water. He rests his hands on Nate's hips, though he's never needed to hold on, fingers pressed into leather but, underneath, there's only a thin layer of cotton and then Nate's warm skin, a silver horseshoe on a length of parachute cord where dog-tags used to hang. He tries, but can't find the words to say, _I know now that you are all my luck_.

It's hard to imagine where he'd be if Nate wasn't here with him.

They've decided to take the long way round, to cut down through Brazil instead of through Colombia, ostensibly because it's easier but mostly to give themselves some time. There's a palpable sense that Chile will be the end of something and neither of them are ready to see the end of this yet. He warps his arms around Nate's chest and feels his heartbeat. Nate smiles; the bike wobbles but stays true.

The roads are terrible but they are close. They pull over and Brad walks a little way away from the bike and pisses, feels the relief coursing through him. Simple things have taken on more weight.

They're close to the Amazon here, but not close enough to see it. At night, they pitch a tent, build a fire and Brad sits with his heels dug into the sandy soil, fleece and leather tugged on against the sudden cool of the evening, and he imagines that river, broad and beautiful, black in the night. Nate sits down beside him, close enough that their shoulders butt together. Nate reaches out and slides one hand along the flat of his thigh, and under his combats, there are still bandages but it's hurting less and less.

"Do you ever think about what we're going to do?" Nate asks.  
Sometimes, they go hours and hours without speaking; Brad forgets language in a way that he never did in theater. In theater, the radios were always chattering in the background. In theater, they were never actually without noise.

It takes him a long moment to formulate an answer.

"When?" he asks.  
"After all this," he says. "When we have to go back."

The truth is that he dreams about going back all of the time; he dreams about what it would be like to go back to San Diego, back to Oceanside, to walk into the office with his eyes level but his leg dragging ever-so-slightly and nothing will ever be the same again. He's unlikely to run ever again. He's unlikely to ever feel completely like himself again. 

But when he's with Nate, he can pretend that none of it ever happened.  
Nate Fick is as close to a new start as he's ever going to get. Perhaps he always was.

He shakes his head.

"I never think past you and me and this," he says, but maybe it's easier like that.

They fuck under canvas, leather discarded at the door, sleeping bags zipped together like teenagers. Nate kneels over him and peels him out of denim and sweat-stained cotton. Naked, he stretches his arms up over his head and watches Nate with the light from the lamp behind him, his hair coppery and starting to curl across his forehead as he tugs his t-shirt off. Brad finds himself distracted by the long, neat lines of Nate's arms and it seems impossible to him that Nate can have been a Marine, dealt death and destruction and walked away from it completely unscathed. Maybe being a Marine was never going to be enough for him.

Nate kisses down Brad's chest, his bottom lip dragging. His fingers trace against scars. Brad feels his breath catch. He feels his dick harden and he's unbelievably fucking grateful for that; it's not always a foregone conclusion anymore and Nate's always so kind and he's always so good which makes it worse and not better. Tonight, though, everything works out the way that it's supposed to, with Nate's fingers curled around him and Nate's mouth sliding down over his dick. His back presses into an arch, his heels digging down and he presses his fingers into Nate's hair and maybe he could live with going back to San Diego but only if Nate was at his six.

He's so close to coming when Nate straightens up, letting Brad's dick slip out of his mouth before he leans over him and kisses him with warm, damp lips. Their bodies press together, his fingers sliding over Nate's, over both of their dicks, stroking them together, pushing them against each other and they breathe and they scramble, sobbing against each other's mouths and he sucks on Nate's bottom lip and he forgets about the bandages altogether.

Afterwards, they lie separate but near and he can feel the heat pouring off Nate's skin. He covers his eyes with one hand and waits for his breathing to return to normal. He looks over, and Nate's smiling. He thinks about all of the times that they leaned side by side in the dark.

"Maybe we never go back," he says, quietly, head still turned, still watching Nate smiling. "Maybe we make it all the way to Valparaiso and we get a little place to do up and I find somewhere where the surfing's good."

They'll keep the windows open in the bedroom and paint _Semper_ fucking _Fidelis_ over the door.

He closes his eyes and opens them again.  
Nate rolls closer and cradles Brad's face with one hand.


End file.
